1:00 p.m.
The sun was hot.
Not just from its glare but from the warmth of the people's welcome.
In every barangay we passed through, it didn't feel like we were simply driving by, it felt like they were waiting for a long-lost loved one finally returning home.
This wasn't just any motorcade.
It was a promise fulfilled to the barangays we missed during the first Grand Motorcade.
And now, we came back.
But honestly... it was us who were surprised.
As soon as the convoy arrived at the first barangay, we were met by a wave of people.
It was like a fiesta, but without banderitas, the symbol of celebration was the face they'd been waiting for.
Even before Mayor Andy got out of the vehicle, someone was already shouting:
"There he is! Mayor Andy! The true father of the town!"
When he stepped down from the vehicle, the whole place felt like it shook.
Cheers.
Tears.
Applause.
Some rushed forward holding flowers. Others brought food, a grandmother handed him kutsinta in a plastic bag.
"Mayor, you might be hungry. We've been waiting here for hours."
An elderly man handed him a framed photo, an old picture of Mayor Andy with his family.
"I never took this off my wall. I never took you out of my heart."
Mayor had no words.
He just smiled, nodded gently, and squeezed the old man's hand tightly.
At the second barangay…
As soon as he got off, a group of male supporters hoisted him up.
"We've got you, Mayor!" they shouted as the crowd erupted around them.
He was like a rockstar.
But it wasn't about fame.
It was about respect, love, and the longing of people whose only wish was for him to return.
A little boy greeted him, carrying a customized Coke bottle. On the label:
"Mayor Andy David Lacson"
"Mayor, we made this at the Coke personalization booth! We didn't drink it... because it's special for you."
Mayor practically winced from the cuteness as he accepted it.
"I'm going to keep this, add it to my collection! It's beautiful. Thank you, thank you!" he said.
The people laughed and smiled. But behind every smile was weight.
A story.
A heart.
When we reached the third barangay…
Mayor was immediately handed a garland lei, not just any flower necklace but one woven from roses, gumamela, and red cardboard pieces spelling out:
"Thank you, Mayor Andy!"
It was placed around his neck by a woman who had clearly worked hard on it.
"This isn't just made of flowers, Mayor. It's made of belief. Made of respect. I hope you feel it."
It felt like the world paused.
Mayor went silent, holding the lei.
He closed his eyes and, in a single breath, quietly said,
"Thank you so much."
Fourth Barangay.
Here, an elderly woman approached holding a rosary. She didn't speak.
No grand gesture.
She simply placed it around his neck and held his hand.
No words were needed, only their eyes spoke.
Mayor hugged her.
"This is the real campaign material.
Prayer. Faith."
Beside the stage, there were children carrying colored paper.
All with drawings of the Mayor.
All with the words
"Bring Back the Red."
Fifth Barangay.
As the convoy approached, people ran out of their houses as if they hadn't slept, or maybe they really hadn't.
A young boy handed Mayor an envelope. Inside was a photo of the two of them from 2013, now stained with age.
"Mayor, that's me when I was a kid. I'm all grown up now. Please come back for the next batch."
People never seemed to tire.
In other barangays, young people held lightsticks like it was a concert.
From speakers, the Mayor's campaign jingle blasted remixed, no less.
Some danced.
Others clapped.
Some handed him balut, green mangoes, and a banana cue wrapped in foil:
"My mom made this, Mayor. She said even if you can't eat much, she wants you to at least have a taste."
Laughter broke out as Mayor continued shaking hands, hugging, and smiling but in every hug, there was a sincere gaze.
He recognized everyone. He remembered them all.
12 midnight.
It was dark.
But the streets were alive.
No official lights anymore.
But the eyes of everyone watching Mayor shone brightly.
Mothers still carried their children.
Grandfathers and grandmothers sat on curbs, holding cups of coffee.
In one barangay, a father faced the crowd and spoke without warning:
"We're not paid, Mayor... but we're sleepless.
Because we were waiting for you. You never left us, so we never left you."
Applause thundered. Some raised cups of soft drinks. Others cried. Some shouted,
"Anjo! Anjo!"
There were no campaign promises uttered.
But each scene, was more powerful than any platform ever could be.